


Unseen

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-31
Updated: 2007-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to popular belief, witches do get sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unseen

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in December of 2007.

Contrary to popular belief, witches _do_ get sick.  Still, Anathema refuses to believe this, and she's certain that the cold will respond at any moment to the vigorous talking-to that she's given it.  Newt has been quiet all evening, shuffling about the house.

She sneezes hard and has to sit down, because her head is spinning.

Newt is sick often enough that Anathema is convinced he's as human as humans can get, thank goodness, or in the very least a hypochondriac.  He responds well to herbal treatments and knows better than to stay abed for more than twenty-four hours at a go. Anathema suspects that she _should_ attempt such a stay, but Agnes has plenty of bracing sayings that drift around in her thoughts when she's like this and she wouldn't be able to get to sleep anyway.  She blinks at the floor, rubbing her nose.

She didn't hear Newt come in, but he's standing beside her chair, looking at her.

"Entertaining, isn't it," Anathema says, staring at his hole-toed socks.

"Not really," he says, and reaches down to take her hand.  He tugs until it's uncomfortable and she has to stand up, at which point she has to look into his eyes and realizes that her own are blurred and watery because another sneeze is coming.

" _Achoo_."

Her head is spinning faster, and it isn't because of Agnes's belligerent advice.

It's because Newt is carrying her toward the bedroom, saying, "It's all right."

*        *        *

"Your nose is all red, Wens," Brian says, rubbing his own.  When he moves his hand away, there's a smudge on the tip.  They've been pulling up weeds, looking for gold.

So far, they've had no luck.

"I doe," he says miserably, wiping it on his sleeve.  The air smells prickly like smoke, and there's a chill all about, and the wind blows leaves into Mrs. Young's flowerbed.

"Mum swears by camo-mile tea," Pepper says, aggressively taking hold of something that looks very, very spiny.  She yanks her hand away, then scratches at her palm with her fingernails.  "'Least that's what she gives Gran when she's got a cold."

"We haven't got anything called camo-mile," Adam says, tossing a handful of roots, leaves, and dirt for Dog to chase across the yard, "but I think there's regular."

" _My_ mum keeps chamomile," Brian whispers while Adam and Pepper argue over where they should be throwing the weeds and rocks, and whether or not there's gold.

"Can I have some?" Wensleydale asks quietly, hopefully.  He's tired of not smelling the dirt and the grass and the air.  Nothing but smoke gets through, and it's not very nice.

"Yeah," Brian says, getting up and offering him a hand.  "Come on, then."

Wensleydale's hands are just as dirty, so it's okay to take Brian's just this once.

*        *        *

Pumpkin scones are Madame Tracy's favorite.  Her mother used to make them when she was a girl, and she went on making them up until the day she died.  She despaired of ever getting the recipe right, as her grandmother or her great-grandmother hadn't written it down.

She hadn't got the hang of it, but that didn't stop her from making them.

"Wha're ye up to, wumman?" Shadwell asks, scratching his ear as he stumps into the kitchen.  He hasn't talked much this week, the poor dear.  Head blocked up like an old chimney, Madame Tracy decided, or worse.  She couldn't even get him to drink soup.

"Baking," she says.

"Aye, aye," he grunts.  "Though' so.  C'n smell it."

"Oh, that's wonderful!"  Madame Tracy opens the oven and bends inside, beaming.  They look nearly finished, and she is eager to have some.  Mister S never had cared much for the things, so she doesn't expect he'll want a taste.  He probably can't taste much as it was, sweet tea or no sweet tea.  "Out of the way, love.  It's piping hot."

Shadwell watches her take hold of the tray with oven-mitted hands, nose twitching.

"Mmm," Madame Tracy hums to herself, scooping one up in her palm.

She reaches the parlor before she hears the scrape of metal and a muffled curse, then not-so-muffled, gluttonous chewing, and then the same thing over again.

Madame Tracy beams at the television and turns it on, taking a bite of satisfaction.

*        *        *

" _Achoo_!"

Gabriel blinks, stepping out of the way politely.  He has never seen such a flurry of feathers except the last time Michael caught him for a perfunctory grooming.

Michael, wiping his nose sheepishly, looks as if he could use another.

"Sorry," he mutters, and picks up the armful of scrolls that he had dropped.

"Quite all right."  Gabriel isn't sure he should find it amusing that his colleague has a dust allergy, or that whoever was in charge of designing Heaven let there be dust in the first place.  It's one of their great embarrassments, like lawyers, or harmonicas.

"Like hell," Michael says under his breath, moving the scrolls onto their newly dusted shelf.  He never understands why office upkeep is necessary, but _He_ insists.

"You've got a few feathers loose," Gabriel says, deciding to let the language slide.  Gets even the best of them.  He'd simply told Aziraphale long ago to stop turning himself in.  The whole affair was a nuisance and a half, and they had bigger problems.

Michael grunts, rubbing his nose again.

"Don't do that," says Gabriel, feeling uncomfortable.  He rummages in the pockets of his loose robes until he comes up with something lace-edged and embarrassing.

"Thanks," snaps Michael, and whisks it away.

One of these days, Gabriel is sure he'll come around, but he isn't quite sure to _what_.

*        *        *

"Go away," Crowley says, his voice muffled on the other side of the door.

Aziraphale sighs patiently, shifting the cup and saucer to his other hand.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"In case you hadn't noticed, angel," Crowley says, his strained voice rising, "this _is_ ridiculous.  We can't get sick."

"Well, I don't know about that," Aziraphale replies, thoughtful.  " _Angels_ can't get sick, strictly speaking, but _your_ sort, on the other hand—"

"Are no different than yours when it comes down to it," Crowley snaps irritably.  "Have you at least brought tea or something else insufferably thoughtful?"

"I thought you didn't want it," Aziraphale says, taking a sip loudly enough for him to hear.  It's first-flush Darjeeling with cream, would be a shame to waste it.

Crowley makes a strangled noise, and the lock gives with a testy click.

"My, you're looking chipper," Aziraphale says brightly, stepping inside.

"Don't push your luck," Crowley says.  He grabs the tea as soon as Aziraphale is close enough, spilling some on the sheets.  He glares at the spots, which don't _quite_ vanish.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale says quietly, but not quietly enough.

"Out," Crowley says, and tries the glare on _him_.

"No," Aziraphale says cheerfully, and sits down on the mattress.  Crowley's legs are warm against the small of his back, and he notices that the demon doesn't flinch at the contact.  "I believe some company would do you a world of good."

"Yeah, and your absence would do the _world_ —"

Crowley cuts himself off, sneezing, and then downs half the tea in one swig. 

"That's what I thought," Aziraphale says, patting his thigh approvingly.

Crowley glances down at his hand, then back up at Aziraphale.

"You're wretched at this, you know."

"I'll get better," Aziraphale reassures him, leaning to taste the cream on his lips.


End file.
